Cosmic Love
by HB's Favourite
Summary: A sentimental bit of fluff dedicated to Imogen's unrequited love for Constance.


_Hello all_

_Sorry to do this before Bellatoxica #10, but I have several oneshots I want to upload and this is one of them. I was going to scrap it, but I promised Blondie47 I'd post!_

_It's a bit... sentimental. _

**Cosmic Love **

A song was playing on repeat in the background, and the rain fell consistently outside the open window. Not the heavy rain that soaked you if you took a mere trip to the broomshed and back. Not the light, summer shower that felt fresh on your face. Just a relentless flurry that pattered the leaves and drenched the ground. The kind that shared your melancholy, but offered no solace.

The track came to an end and began again, perhaps for the eighth time. The same song that had reminded Imogen of _her,_ so inconveniently, as Serge had encircled his arm around her waist, pulling her close as though they were the only two in the venue. She'd returned the obligatory smile, his forehead pressed to hers as she avoided the fondness of his gaze. It was the least he deserved. He'd brought her to this exclusive gathering, this one-off, intimate performance by her artist of the moment. And just a few short months ago, it would have been the best present she'd ever received.

If only _she _hadn't done it. If only _she_, of all people, hadn't inexplicably given Imogen a triquetra pendant on a silver chain for her birthday. If only Imogen hadn't Googled its history and meaning. To Constance and her kindred it was a symbol of protection, and Imogen could not now detach her mind from wondering why, of all things, Constance had bestowed this particular symbol. Perhaps it had been innocent enough; but all the warped emotions the gym mistress had so far suppressed had burst forth, flatly refusing to take refuge in the sanctuary of her common sense – the part that told her Constance would be appalled if she knew what she'd stirred.

They had slow-danced amongst the crowd, Serge holding his plastic-cupped pint away so as not to spill it on her new shoes. She'd taken a swig from the half-bottle of cheap Chardonnay, hoping it might take effect, that it might bring her back to Earth and remind her that the man before her was her future, fading her ridiculous fantasy into a past, cringeable memory. But Florence sang the chorus again, and the tears stung her closed eyes as she saw the face of the woman she could no longer deny she wanted above all else: above the husband, the children – the _convention _– that she'd dreamt of since she was a girl. She saw her wherever she went. She'd pictured her in their home, whilst Serge was slumped on the sofa flicking from one mindless sitcom to the next. She'd pictured her cooking a meal, tending the shrubs, reposing in the sun. If she laughed at a joke, she wanted Constance to hear it. If she tasted new wine, she wanted Constance to share it. If she saw a play, it was Constance with whom she wanted to discuss it.

And then she'd made the mistake of telling her, and Constance's guard had slammed down like a portcullis, through which none shall pass. There was awkwardness in the staffroom, stilted conversation in the dining hall, and avoidance of situations where the two of them were alone.

x

Imogen felt the cold stone beneath her thigh, resting her head in Constance's lap as the magical fingertips caressed her hair.

She daren't look up. She knew that Constance was reclined in her seat, surprisingly open to the experience of an artist she had never even heard of: this hyper-famous Florence character and her powerhouse vocals, so unlike anything she'd heard before. She knew that Constance, unlike herself, would not be on the verge of tears. Not because she didn't feel anything; but because her art of expression had not been nurtured.

Imogen swallowed at the tender lump in her throat. _It's the __**feeling**__ you love_, she told herself. _The __**feeling**__ you get when she's around... when you hear her voice_. _It's just a feeling, that's all... _

She thought purposefully of Serge, desperately trying to remember what it was she had fallen in love with. It was still there, the common ground and the humour, the shared experiences and the future aspirations. But he wasn't magical. He wasn't powerful. He wasn't Constance. And for that reason she couldn't love him enough.

Yes, she could tell herself until she was blue in the face that love was only a feeling; but until that feeling shifted of its own accord, she was condemned to suffer its terminal persistence.

It was upon acknowledging that fact that she had returned to Constance for help.

The song ended again, but this time it didn't start anew. The fingers stopped in her hair. Imogen closed her eyes, the tears cold on her lashes. She wasn't ready yet.

'Imogen,' came the soft but firm voice above her. 'You know what we agreed.'

Somewhere amidst her feeling of bereft resignation, Imogen had got to her feet and was following Constance out of the room, along the darkened corridors and down the stairs. She felt empty and emotionless, wishing she'd just been satisfied enjoying her lust in silence, wondering what she'd ever thought confessing her feelings would achieve, asking herself if she should be comforted that Constance had not shown the merest flicker of reciprocation...

She perched on a stool in the potion lab, helpless and barely watching Constance as she methodically gathered the ingredients. She looked fetching in her apron – Imogen had always thought that. She sliced, diced, poured and mixed, the cauldron hissing, simmering, bubbling... Imogen watched the entire scene without the slightest interest. The lump in her throat was still there, but it had grown numb.

Constance poured a dose of the potion into a phial, handing it to Imogen.

Imogen held her gaze for a moment. _Are you sure this is the right way?_ she asked, silently. She knew somehow that Constance had heard her.

'It is the only way.' came the spoken response. Imogen thought she detected a vague hesitation. Wishful thinking, perhaps.

The gym mistress observed the magic at her fingertips. She didn't know what colour she'd expected Anti-Infatuation Potion to be. But she had certainly not expected it to be fuchsia pink.

She drained the contents in one and left the room, without a second glance at the incorruptible potions mistress.

Tomorrow, she would ask one of the girls for a reversal potion.

Surely unrequited love was better than none.

x

_As always, thanks for taking the time to read. _

_If you are wondering what song they were listening to, it was a live version of Cosmic Love by Florence and the Machine. Type "cosmic love mtv session" into Google, and it's the second listing that appears. It should take you to the MTV website. _


End file.
